“Certainly. I am not asking you to break any confidences; in fact,” Ferguson smiled, “I must ask you to consider our conversation confidential. Now, Mr. Kent, does it not strike you as odd that apparently the only man in Washington who really disliked Turnbull was Colonel McIntyre, and it is his daughter who intimates that Turnbull's death was not due to natural causes?”
“Oh, pshaw!” Kent shrugged his shoulders. “You are taking an exaggerated view of the affair. Colonel McIntyre is an honorable upright American, and Turnbull was the same.”
“People speak highly of both men,” acknowledged the detective. “I saw Mr. Clymer, president of Turnbull's bank this afternoon, and he paid a fine tribute to his dead cashier.”
Kent drew an inward sigh of relief. Benjamin Clymer had proved true blue; he had not permitted Colonel McIntyre's desire for immediate publicity and belief in Turnbull's guilt to shake his faith in his friend.
“You see, Ferguson, there is no motive for such a crime as you suggest,” he remarked.
“Oh, for the motive,”—Ferguson rubbed his hands nervously together as he shot a look at his questioner; the latter's clear-cut features and manly bearing inspired confidence. “We know of no motive,” he corrected.
“And we know of no crime having been perpetrated,” rapped out Kent. “Come, man; don't hunt a mare's nest.”
“Ah, but it isn't a mare's nest!” Ferguson remarked dryly.
Kent bent eagerly forward—“You have heard from the coroner—”
“Not yet,” Ferguson jerked forward his chair until his knees touched Kent.